


Choke Point

by brittlelimbs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Dissociation, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Angst, Gamer AU - Freeform, Gaming addiction, M/M, Overwatch - Freeform, Past Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Social Anxiety, recluse credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Online, Credence is sketchy on personal details, hinting at a significant other, ballparking his own age. No hint that he's the live-in sugar baby of one of the wealthiest investment bankers on the West Coast, which is a fucking weird thing to tell someone. Sounds like a farce you’d share coquettishly with a stranger while you hid in a bathroom at a houseparty, squeezed in shared some liminal space, in hopes that they’d believe it.Gamer!Credence AU with an angsty twist.





	Choke Point

**Author's Note:**

> yo!!!! weird fic ahead!!!! also a lot of overwatch related jargon (which i've tried to sort of water down as much as possible for non players). credence is not a well adjusted individual in this fic 
> 
> for those who are concerned, credence is just under eighteen when he and graves meet, but he's of age by the time they start having sex 
> 
> un-beta'd

“Fuck!” Credence yells.

 

They’re losing.

 

The screen casts his face a spooky blue, scooping out his cheekbones with a heavy hand; his eyes are glittering, glazed with malice and glee. The laptop is fucking lux, not one penny pinched for Baby, full light-up candy-colored keyboard and a gaping display that spills a good few inches wider than his narrow thighs. It gets so hot that he’d started to feel the hard drive burning its way through the thickness of the comforter three hours back, but that doesn’t matter because they’re _losing_.

 

And Daddy’s late tonight.

 

His thumbs skitter over the custom controller. “Tracer coming behind,” he barks, and someone—Tina-- chirps something from his headset (D.va-modeled, pink and pointy and cute. Credence had squealed with joy when Daddy had dragged them into his Amazon Prime cart), but it’s too little too late: a girl in leggings peppers Credence’s staggering mech with bullets, killing him, then promptly blips out of existence.  

 

He lets out a little shriek and pounds his fist into the pillows. “Tina! Get the fucking flank!”

 

The blackout blinds in the bedroom have been fully drawn for a week and a half and Daddy lets him play video games as much as he wants. Or—as long as it doesn’t get in the way of Daddy’s time, because it’s precious. Those are big rules, not that he has the will to test them. Honestly, Credence can’t remember the last time wanted to go out and stand on the wraparound back deck, or even went out to the pool, stretched out like an ultramodern oasis only one sliding glass door away. Doesn’t recall the last time he didn’t feel ready for Daddy to come lay his heavy, hot love all over his body to slake the long drudgery of work, taking Credence like a birthright, staked out by capital. Daddy is the new, warm sunlight in sugarbaby world; the screen a strange flicker-moon. His only hazy marker of time is the departure and arrival of Daddy on the days he takes the Tesla to the office, which Credence has figured out how to align with his backwards sleep schedule: stay up just long enough to see Daddy off, then sleep until he comes home. Have fun with Daddy until he’s tired, then play video games while he waits for Daddy to wake up again. Be good and take the plugs that Daddy puts in his ass to keep him stretched and ready for when he’s come home from a long day at work, or jonesing for a morning fuck.

When Credence had announced this little plan a month ago, Daddy had just cupped his face in one big hand, thumb pushing the corner of Credence’s mouth up into a plush snarl until it slipped inside to be sucked.

_So good, making time for me._

 

Then he’d returned his attention to iPhone and Credence’s head to back between his legs, putting that apt mouth to work while he checked competitor’s market shares. So good.

 

Credence is good at following the rules. Others include: he gets all the best fucking skins. He gets all the best merch. He gets the best fucking setup. His big rig, the desktop where he’s got League of Legends and WOW and a million Steam-queued trendy little indie projects all lined up to play, is downstairs in the workout room. He hasn’t touched it much, lately. The laptop’s ‘just for trips,’ like Daddy could jet Credence off with him to an obscure corner of the world at any given moment, but it’s just as nice to not leave bed. He’d told Daddy as much. Just eating and sleeping and playing together all in one gross-lovely pastiche of bedsheets and cum, time that Credence keeps forgetting has passed.

 

He plays through the rest of the match, yelling at his team when they let the attackers take the initial point, then plow the payload through their scattered defense. They throw the game. Then the match. Someone called ‘goyl3’ calls him a faggot in voice chat, then worse, and Credence leaves the lobby. He checks the time on his phone again while the characters flex and taunt him at the title screen. It’s a little past eight thirty. Daddy had said he’d be working long, but it’s stretched way past that and into full on late. His texts still sit unread at the bottom of their messages (a cherished archive of little teased quips, nudes, mostly one sided). Daddy has his own big, grown up things to do, his own life that Credence has no pretense at involvement in, but he’d promised himself at seven thirty that he’d call by nine—and he never calls anyone.

 

Talking to people on the phone tends to make him feel a little like his heart is going to beat out of his chest and makes sweat bead on his palms.

 

“You okay?” Tina pipes up over the group chat.

 

Internet friends don’t count. That’s why he likes her.

 

“Yeah. ‘M okay.”

 

Credence had met her while working his way up from Gold to Platinum a month or two ago, clawing his way blindly through the toxic cesspit that is the Overwatch competitive bracket. Slurs, threats, screaming; his skin was already thick to it. Too many hours of MMORPG online interaction under his belt. He’d been twiddling his virtual thumbs before a match, rumbling around in the queue, when some mouthbreather got on him to switch characters to suit the team composition. Tina—Niffler, then, a cute little ruffle-y name that Credence liked on sight-- told him to fuck off, and it was easy as that: they became fast friends. Or shapes of friends. He has no idea what she looks like, how old she is, where she’s from. Just that she’s sweet, and usually online in the evenings, and sort of seemed to pick up on the fact that Credence needs to be mom’d pretty quickly. Like Credence is so blatantly himself that his internet presence is wearing his emotional dysfunction and his favorite pair of frilly panties on its sleeve.

 

He tips back against the pillows, the plug in his ass nudging gently against his insides like a melancholy reminder. “Just worried about my—boyfriend. He’s late tonight.” He’s been sketchy on personal details, hinting at a significant other, ballparking his own age. No hint that he’s the live-in sugar baby of one of the wealthiest investment bankers on the West Coast, which is a fucking weird thing to tell someone. Sounds like a farce you’d share coquettishly with a stranger while you hid in a bathroom at a houseparty, squeezed in shared some liminal space, in hopes that they’d believe it. Tina might, might not. He doesn’t want to chance it.

 

“Aw, honey. I’m sorry,” she says. A pause. “Wanna play one more round? I’ll pocket heal.” It’s the only concession she can offer; they both know this.

 

“Okay,” Credence says, and starts searching for a game.

 

Another rule, fallen into, almost tacit: Credence doesn’t go anywhere outside the house without Daddy taking him there. He imagines himself stumbling out into the world naked, defenseless, and is aroused by how much living with Daddy, even just for the nearly two years they’ve been together, has stripped him. A true baby. Never needing of competence. Never saddled with more than he can handle—all he needs to know how to do now, in Daddy’s words, is take a cock. It’s a relief. Credence’s back still sloped and neck still cricked by the weight of memories of the Home, of Ma, who pushed him hard then harder. Mean enough that he still has the scars on his hands from not making the soup correctly, or leaving the heater on too long. Cane divots in his thighs from jumbled Bible verses on his lips.

Across his back, two raised belt stripes in an ‘x’, or a cross, his most prized possessions. He earned them for the ultimate transgression: sneaking out.

He’d met Percival Graves a pocket-sized queer bar a few blocks from the Home that he’d fantasized about spending an evening at, the actual idea of which was so terrifying to Credence at the time he’d nearly pissed his pants when he’d finally pushed inside, pretense of some chore left for Ma and his sisters to gnaw on. It was pretty empty; a Thursday night. The best Thursday night of his life. The older man at the bar leaning over a beer was distinctive, dark and handsome, or something—a line from one of Chastity’s pulp novels she kept in Bible Study dustjackets on her bookshelf—and when he looked up from over the rim of his glass, casual, confident, as if he’d somehow found out everything about the boy shaking in the doorway that he needed to know just in a glance, and the Lord left Credence’s heart on the spot.

He bore the beating later with the confident grace of a heretic, Grave’s number written heavy on a slip of napkin in his pocket. He’d call from a pay phone; he didn’t have a cell until Graves bought him his first one.

 

The swoop from never-good-enough to plenty had been dizzying, whiplash from the crumbly bottom of a New York borough to bright-blinding LA sheen so fast that Credence left his stomach across the country on the flight over. Scattered paperwork and fluted mimosa glasses littered in their wake, big sunglasses to hide where Ma had hit him one last time, to hurt (Credence had begged Daddy to _leave, let’s just leave_ , crying and being dragging along by a hand around the wrist while Graves had gnarred briefly about lawsuits on and almost-eighteen protective custody before simply performing the heist, lawyers smoothing the trail). Shit went sideways and he hasn’t heard from Ma or even Chastity since, but his heart’s stayed right here, in Daddy’s hands, where it’s warm—or at least something that feels close enough to it.

 

His team jumps around in spawn, chatting meaninglessly, waiting for the gates to peel back so they can rush the enemy.

 

“I need to find a new hobby,” Tina sighs, her character doing a silly dance emote at Credence.

 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, doing one back.

 

“Too many trolls on here.”

 

The doors open, and the game begins.

 

Credence can tell when Daddy gets home, right in the middle of the first match. He strains to hear soft sounds beyond the headset, the skill of sensing of a presence honed to a point over nearly eighteen painful years on the wrong side of Ma’s arbitrary laws. He’s torn: take off the headset, quit and take the rankings hit right there, or continue on; Daddy doesn’t usually care if he keeps playing. But then Tina’s in trouble with a bunch of sentry turrets and he knows that if he just uses his ultimate they could win this point—

He feels Daddy’s footsteps land heavy on the hardwood flooring, steady and approaching. He glances up. Daddy’s wearing a casual suit today and he looks so, so good: pale blue dress shirt, hand in the pocket of his slacks with a rolex shining on his wrist, jacket folded limp over one arm. He smiles at Credence as if he’s the first good thing he’s seen all day, folds around his mouth deep, eyes crinkled. Jesus. Credence is pretty sure he’s at least twenty percent liquid, melting right there on the bed, getting wet like a girl. Or maybe that’s just the load that was left in him this morning before he passed out.

“Monkey coming behind!” Tina yells, far away, and Credence must look torn: Daddy tips his chin up in a nod, _carry on_ , then goes to the closet to hang up his jacket.

Credence tries to zone back into the screen with split attention. He feels hypersensitive to the feeling of the sheets, his plug, the subtle warmth and scent that Daddy’s presence means— _can your skin crawl, but in a delicious way_? He isn’t sure. The way Daddy moves about his post-work routine as if he isn’t there makes Credence feel like a particularly expensive piece of furniture, another pillow on the bed. They’re gaining an upper hand when Daddy finally returns to pay attention to Credence, and Credence lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Daddy says something. Credence moves one of the plush headphone ear cups aside to hear it:

“--your belly. Don’t stop.”

_Fuck._

Credence struggles and eagerly shifts to comply, laptop lifted and everything flipped around so he’s laying on his stomach, only a few seconds lapsed. His cock is getting hard against the sheets; he knows this position. This is when Daddy wants him to feel good. Daddy’s hands are on his hips, lifting them, sliding a thick pillow beneath, drawing Credence’s white Y-fronts down. Credence tries to focus on dodging incoming fire, thinking only of how the plug must look, gleaming like a lewd, wet gem between his pale asscheeks. Daddy spreads them with one hand, which means Credence needs to relax so the plug can be taken out. He complies, then sighs as he feels the slick slide of it, followed by a rush of cold.

Daddy inspects the looseness of him with two fingers, scissoring and stretching in a kind gesture of preparation, the other hand resting on the soft lordosis curve of his lower back in a way that’s so proprietary it makes Credence leak and rut forward into the pocket between the sheets and the pillow beneath his hips. He’s been waiting for _hours_. Daddy must find the stretch satisfactory; he places one open mouthed kiss right on his hole, forcing Credence to whine brazenly into the mike.

“What the fuck was that?” One of his teammates asks.

“You okay?” says Tina.

“Yeah, I’m g—good,” Credence mumbles, then “ _Shit_.” He’s taken big damage from one of the enemy’s tanks. He scrambles to find cover behind a wall and wait for backup. Daddy’s knees are on either side of him, now, trousers still on, high thread count rubbing against Credence’s babysoft hips. Three hot, wet kisses come to land on Credence’s shoulders as the head of Daddy’s cock starts to rut back and forth, just above his ass, just shadowing sex, already thick with arousal and getting bigger and harder by the second. Credence is tucked beneath a humid shadow, two big hands bracketing the laptop while his own fly quickly on the controller.

 

Credence mows a low-health straggler down with his rockets.

 

Daddy slips inside.

 

Credence sees stars, not knowing how much he needed the physical affirmation of being fucked until this exact moment; how much the worry had worn on him.

 

Daddy starts to fuck him with long, sweet strokes, and Credence isn’t being shredded onscreen purely through the grace of autopilot and the skin of his teeth, hours and hours of play telling his fingers where to go, only half seeing the screen. Daddy sucks another wet hickey at the base of his neck; his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Slowly. Surely. His toes are curling on each thrust, knees bent, small cock fucking into the bedding and making his whole body feel like it’s going to molt out of his skin with the heat.

“This is awkward,” someone says on the chat, and there are other gripes of _troll_ and _fag_ and Credence realizes that he’s panting openly, breath rattling hollowly across the connection to these strangers. Unmistakably the sounds of sex. Of getting _fucked_. Credence’s stomach twists, caught somewhere between utter embarrassment, the incarnation of his worst nightmares, and the brazen I-don’t-know-you defiance that lets people post vile shit on internet forums, send death threats into inboxes.

Daddy’s leaning back, angle shifting so that every stroke brushes his prostate, and Credence’s heavy breathing devolves into pitiful, hiccupping sobs. He goes limp, accepting the fact that he’s going to come, embracing it, this new kind of worship, which Daddy says he’s so much better at than prayer. His eyes slit with pleasure, barely able to see his way around the point, still overwhelmed by the fugue of possessing something someone else could be jealous of.

Daddy pulls out.

Clarity rudely rushes back right away: they’ve won the point. They’ve lost the point. Maybe he was booted. Credence doesn’t know, only that the game is ending, over.

And he’s empty.

“Daddy, _please_ ,” he whines, ten steps past caring who hears over the gravelly chat connection. He’s fucking the pillow with abandon, twisting, dying with need.

“On your back,” Daddy says, sounding pleased. His voice is cool and gives away none of the strain of desire, the effort of sex.

Credence rips off the headphones without a shred of gracefulness and rolls away from the laptop, into Daddy’s arms, pushing his butt down, insistent to be full again.

The slip of Daddy’s cock back inside him should be easier but instead it’s harder, hurts more, and Credence likes it. Makes him think of the first time they fucked— _made love_ , a word just as breathless and pulp-y as the first time they laid eyes on each other-- in some hotel Daddy had rented for the night with clean beds and a flatscreen TV and two sweating bottles of champagne in a bucket. A land of indulgences previously unknown to Credence. They made love on the bed and he was all leaked tears, not from the pain, which he was accustomed to, but from the sweetness. The unbelievable and overwhelming fact that this man saw something in Credence worth exploring, penetrating, pushing inside, in both a lewdly carnal sense and a soppily emotional one.

(Daddy had fucked him raw afterwards until his ass was numb, one hand on his throat, squeezing hard enough that during their post-coital episode of Game of Thrones that Credence’s breath whistled when he spoke. But Daddy’s arms around him against the headboard made the pain a little better, helping him forget the uncomfortable truth that he’d have to return home in a matter of hours).

Now Credence is never going to have to leave this place to go home; he’s already there, with all the distractions he could ever hope to clutch in his sweaty little hands.

 

Daddy fucks him slow and sweet, greying hair falling into his eyes. “I love you, Credence,” he says, and he doesn’t look away, not for a second, for a word.

 

Credence comes.

 

He’s still whimpering, shaking with the force of it, when he feels his ass being lifted into Daddy’s lap to be brutally speared full of cock. Credence, knowing this was coming, tries to hide while not being able to hide at all, slipping to somewhere in the back of his brain to think about how warm Daddy’s smile is, instead. Replaying gameplay footage in his head to lose himself in strategy.

This is the dirty fucking. The man he doesn’t know, all ruthless cunning and blunt force, all Graves, the name and the empire. Credence thinks about how sweetly Daddy holds him instead of how he’s using his boy the way that he’s meant to be used, as a sleeve to come inside. Just there to make Daddy feel good.

Daddy’s hitting him with some particularly hard thrusts, now, trash mouth fully flowing like a tapped keg, so different in flavor from the tenderness that Credence relishes:

“How do you stay so fucking thin, boy, you should be fat, fat, _fat_.”

“I don’t—I don’t know, Daddy,” Credence sobs, cheek pressing to pillow. He really doesn’t; by all accounts he should be huge, grazing off the groceries Daddy gets delivered to the fridge all night and day, but his body keeps eating itself skinny again. Old habits die hard.

“ _Quiet_.” Daddy curls up to grab an ample handful of his butt, holding it in place so he can notch the pace impossibly higher. “It all goes to your ass I swear to Christ, it’s crazy.”

Daddy fucks Credence _so hard_ , and it hurts, it hurts, past anything affectionate and down to the bedrock-baseline hunger of men in power that borders on psychotic. This—this is the penumbra of dark matter that surrounds the brightness of all galaxies, a giant mass invisible by all accounts but indexically, undeniably present. Credence closes his eyes and floats in little scraps of romantic daydreaming and gets pummeled like he’s paying a due, which he is.  

Ever in debt for the way he was plucked from anonymity, as if by an exacting angel, as if this universe had decided that this is Credence Barebone’s true purpose and nobody knew the secret of it but Percival Graves---

 

Daddy’s orgasm is heavy, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and onto Credence’s forehead. Credence will never forget the face he makes when he comes like this: ruthless, almost ferociously angry. He collapses wordlessly on top of his boy, who’s too exhausted to squeak with the dense press of his body. Credence reaches up and wraps his arms around Grave’s broad back to make it an embrace, instead, feeling cum begin to leak its way around Daddy’s cock where it’s pumping him full and down onto the sheets.

 

“You were late,” he says softly.

 

Eventually Daddy softens and arranges them so that they’re lying side by side, Credence in his arms. He shifts, reaching over towards the bedside table for something, and a silly and fearful thing in Credence makes him clings on harder, mouth searching to neck.

Suddenly, a black box has appeared in Daddy’s hand. He pushes it into Credence’s grasp.

“Open it,” he insists, as if everything is gentle and wonderful.

Credence opens it: a necklace. No—a collar, thin and silvery, with a tastefully tiny _PG_ embossed onto the dangling tag.

“For two years,” says Daddy. “I’m sorry I was late. I hope you can forgive me.”

The smile Credence gives is exhausted, watery, but genuine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *grimacing emoji here* 
> 
> find me at second-salemite as always


End file.
